


Redemption, And The Path That Led Us to Need It

by MayCSB



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Addiction, Drug Use, F/M, Heroin, Relapsing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:03:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayCSB/pseuds/MayCSB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a particularly shattering incident, Sherlock relapses. Chapter One follows the immediate aftermath of the relapse, later chapters follow the impact of it in their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Redemption, And The Path That Led Us to Need It

**Chapter 1: Collapse**

She once compared Sherlock to the great Roman Empire. She had no idea just how accurate this comparison would be, not a year later.

His ascension is a process and his decline is sharp and rapid. And so he falls from grace, a needle and three $50 dollar bills playing the role of the barbarian invasions and Watson, that of Romulus Augustus. There is no honour in his fall. He’s left on a street corner, crushed, broken and whimpering.

People don’t walk past him and cars don’t roam the streets. The only noise he hears – seldom so – is that of mice hurrying to and fro sewer pipes, squeaking, scratching, scrabbling around, keeping the dustbins and mountains of rubbish company. The euphoria is long gone, that beautiful, bewildering, peculiar feeling is gone, and the remains of the drug are setting on his blood, his bones, his mind. His legs hurt – he remembers that pain – and his head does too. He would make an effort to get up if he didn’t know better. He would try and call Watson if he didn’t know better. He knows right then, he is a shadow of the man he once were. He’s an illusion, a fallacy, a well-thought-of lie, bits and bobs of the once-remarkable Sherlock Holmes.

He just lies there.

And there she finds him, murmuring her name as if it were a never ending prayer that doesn’t get answered. He’s not wearing a shirt, he wasn’t wearing one when he left the brownstone, his chest and back exposed to the chilly 11C temperatures of New York City in October, for an indeterminate amount of time. Looking at him hurts her. It also infuriates her, bothers her, worries her and physically scars her. She wants to keep a cool head, needs to keep a cool head, needs to get him to the brownstone – a hospital, more prudent – needs to check his stats.

She repeats the anagram PODS in her head several times over – put person in recovery position, open airways, dial 999, stay until an ambulance arrives, the big four of a suspected overdose – alternating it with the word ‘no’. No, he didn’t relapse, no, he didn’t betray her like this, no, this is not happening, no, she is wrong.

Her efforts are futile. She puts him in recovery position, repeating the instructions step by step – put the arm closest to you at a right angle, take their other arm and place the back of the hand against their cheek, grab the far leg and pull it towards you, roll body over – and opens his airways with great care, controlling her own breathing in the process. She can’t fucking believe he would do this to her, to himself, and can’t imagine just how far off her trolley she’s going to fall once he wakes up. She takes off her mobile and dials the emergency, giving them the address and the information that a man was on the street, possibly overdosed, possibly on heroin.

She sits by his side and waits. She doesn’t try any further approach, doesn’t touch him, or look at him. She supports her back against a black dustbin and stares at the graffitted wall in front of her. A blur of colours, faces, silly drawings, meaningful messages, extravagant drabbles and unfiltered language form the picture in front of her, and she wonders just how much of it was sprayed by people just like her, and how much of it by people just like him. Were they painted by the ones who lost or the ones who got lost? Drug-fuelled scribbles or logic approaches to art? Fire or water? Good or bad? Grey, or unreal?

It’s the sound of the ambulance siren that pulls her out of her reverie. She’s tossed into a trance, answering questions in a robotic like manner.

“Do you know him?”

“Yes.”

“What is his name?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Does he have a pre-existing drug problem?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what drugs he’s on?”

“He was previously addicted to heroin.”

“Would you like to come along?”

“Yes.”

She hops into the ambulance, mind wandering to faraway places, places where her partner isn’t overdosing, places where she might trust him again, where he hasn’t thrown away all of his progress, places where reality isn’t quite so harsh, not quite so bleak. Places where she’s happy, and he’s… Sherlock, places where they’re free, free from a foe she judged long defeated, free from the putrid enemy that is drug addiction, but her own consciousness drags her back to reality. She’s not in any far way place, no, she’s sitting inside an ambulance entering the car park of a hospital in Harlem.

The proceedings are relatively fast. A few doctors carry him into a room and she’s given a sheet of paper with questions she herself asked many a time, and confined to a uncomfortable chair in the waiting room. She answers it best she can, but she doesn’t know much as it is. She should know what to do, that’s a fact. Relapse is part of addiction and addiction is what her entire career revolves around, and yet, she finds that she has difficulty dealing with the situation.

She’s lost. She wants to do something, anything, just to occupy her mind. She wants to go and see him, yell at him, ask him why, fucking punch him, hug him, blame him for using and thank him for not dying. She wants to understand what she’s feeling – a mushy mess of an enormous variety of sentiments, really – and sort her mind out. She wants to sleep, wants to feel like he’s safe, they’re safe, wants to tell him just how badly she needs him to be alright.

An hour passes before someone comes to her with news. A young doctor, with short blonde hair and kind green eyes informs her that he’s stable, hooked onto a Lasix IV and being treated for the now-confirmed heroin overdose. He tells her they don’t know exactly just how much he injected, but lets her know it’s near miraculous that he’s not dead or severely impaired, and the he was remarkably lucky. He tells her he should be awake in twelve to fourteen hours, that he could be disoriented and have to be sedated. And that she should go home, get some rest and come back in the morning.

She can’t go home, and will not go home. No, she’ll stay right where she is, and try to answer her own questions. She reflects on the events of the day – the deaths of his father and brother, most importantly – and asks herself how on earth did she not see it coming.

_October 11 th, 2014, 15:42_

_“Sherlock!” she calls, from the top of the stairs “Sherlock, answer the phone!”_

_She’s either not heard or flat-out ignored. The phone doesn’t stop ringing and he doesn’t pick it up, so she runs down the steps and answers the call, scouring the room for Sherlock before she does._

_“Hello?” she says, pressing the phone against her left ear._

_“Hello, this is officer Charles Hogan from the RPU, may I speak to Sherlock Holmes?”_

_She tries to remember what RPU stands for, but she can’t. But the man has a strong Surrey accent and his voice is deep and sombre, so she gathers someone in Britain needs to speak to him. It’s not particularly odd or peculiar, but something makes her uneasy, so she yells his name again, this time more sternly._

_“Watson, I am rather busy.” He tells her, poking his head inside the room._

_“Sherlock, it’s for you. Someone named Hogan at the RPU. It seems serious.”_

_The anagram seems to click something in his mind. He rushes to the phone and takes it from her, clearing his throat before answering._

_“This is Sherlock Holmes.”_

_“Mr. Holmes, I am Officer Hogan, with the RPU. Mr. Holmes, I am very sorry to inform you that Sir Cornelius Holmes and Mycroft Wharton Holmes were killed earlier today in a road accident.”_

_She can’t hear what the officer is saying, but she can hear the faint noise of his voice through the phone. There’s a pause before he continues, and she searches Sherlock’s face for any sign of emotion. Distress, pain, anger? She finds none._

_“Sir, we are aware that you no longer reside in Britain, and we need someone to identify the bodies. I understand this is a very difficult moment, but it is crucial that you find someone able to perform the identification.”_

_“Yes, I shall find someone. Thank you.” He murmurs, and then she sees it. It’s not pain. It’s not… loss, it’s not anger. It’s regret, simply so._

_“What happened?” she questions “What’s the matter?”_

_“There was an accident.” He informs her, in a very cold manner “My father and Mycroft were killed.”_

Fear, Boredom, Resentment, Expectations, the four most common reasons of relapse. She missed the signs, missed the cries for help, the messages he sent her repeatedly for almost an entire week, messages she didn’t read. Cries she didn’t answer and signs she didn’t see. She failed him just as he failed her, she’s well aware.

Six hours later, she’s still sitting in the exact same spot, repeating the exact same sentence in her head. The same doctor – whom she later learns is named Dr. Habib-Jenkins – approaches her, looking as if he slept as much as she did – nothing at all.

“Ms. Watson?” he calls, standing a few feet away from her.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Holmes is awake.” He says “He’s demanding to see you.”

“I thought you said twelve to fourteen hours.”

“Normally, that’s how long it takes.” He clarifies “He’s awake and stable now, but we don’t know for how long.”

“Okay. Thank you.” She says, as she gets up from the uncomfortable chair and follows Dr. Habib-Jenkins into room 137.

It’s like a tsunami, seeing him like that. He looks frail, broken, puny and hurt, being fed, healed and relieved by a seemingly interminable amount of IV’s. A thin blanket covers the lower half of his body, the top half covered by a patterned hospital gown. He doesn’t look at her or the doctor when they enter the room, instead focusing on the telly before him.

“Mr. Holmes?” Dr. Habib-Jenkins called “I got Ms. Watson for you.”

He doesn’t respond. Some football game is on the telly and he seems wholly invested in the match, clutching the remote with his left hand.

“Thank you.” Joan whispers, hoping he’ll leave the room shortly.

And so he does, and she’s left alone with – a conscious – Sherlock for the first time since he relapsed. She doesn’t say anything – none of what she wants to would be appropriate at the moment – and settles in an armchair near the window.

“I am sorry.” He says.

She never heard such a thing from him before. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sadistic prick and there's a very warm spot with my name in hell. Anyway, enjoy (or not, otherwise you'll get a spot as well)!


End file.
